


Sugar, Spice, and All Things Nice

by Who_Needs_Reality



Series: Christmas Fics 2016 [1]
Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, Exes, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8780380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/pseuds/Who_Needs_Reality
Summary: Clarke just really wants a peppermint mocha. Breaking into the apartment of her ex, with whom she may-or-may-not still kind of be madly in love, is an unplanned side effect. Mostly.Based on the prompt "listen i know i can’t just show up at your apartment at six in the morning but i need coffee and no one makes it like you do”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was going to be more Christmassy and fluffy to begin with but hey-ho. It's still fairly fluffy, with sufficient Christmassy beverage content.

Later, Clarke will blame her decisions on sheer exhaustion and severe caffeine depravation. They’re not even strictly untrue, as far as motives go; however they also don’t do a lot to actually make her feel better about the fact that she’s standing at her boyfriend-- _ex-_ boyfriend’s, she reminds herself with a grimace--stove while he’s out of the apartment, blissfully unaware, and stirring a spoon through some practically congealed chocolate. She’s not sure _why_ it’s congealed, because one would think that overly-melted chocolate would go more runny than thick, but then again, nothing else makes sense in Clarke’s life right now, so why should her attempt at hot beverage? Lifting the wooden spatula tentatively from the pan, she darts her tongue out to taste the mixture. She huffs a sigh as she notes that whilst there are _definitely_ notes of peppermint and chocolate there, they are, it must be said, deeply _deeply_ smothered by the acrid taste of burning. Taking this as a good sign that she should probably pack it in (and yes, she’s aware she shouldn’t really _need_ a sign to _not_ sneak into Bellamy’s apartment and hijack his kitchen in the first place, but again, she’s really too tired to examine her poor choices in great detail right now). She picks up the bowl and turns to rinse it out in the sink.

“Clarke?”

 _Of course_ , she thinks, _of course this happens to me! Why wouldn’t it?_ And alright, objectively she gets that she shouldn’t really be so hysterical that her ex is standing in his own apartment, but _still_. 

Bellamy looks frozen in place, a rabbit in headlights, but Clarke realises with a stab how familiar he seems. He’s clearly just come back from work--she’s caught him (or he’s caught her as the case stands) halfway through divesting himself of his beaten leather satchel, one hand unlooping it from around his neck, the other stilled at the top button of his shirt. Even his glasses appear caught in the act of sliding down his nose.

Desperately, she grapples for the logical thing to say, which is futile, because, well. What she comes out with is “Peppermint mocha!” He still hasn’t quite composed himself, so she ploughs on. “God, I’m--I just, it’s been--I was really craving a peppermint mocha and I was trying to make one and it wasn’t working out so then I was going to text you but then I remem--I mean you were, you know, out, so I thought I’d see if you had your recipe written down at your place, so I let myself in because I remember you keep the spare key in the plant pot outside--you should think about switching the hiding place for that, by the way--and then I couldn’t find a recipe so I thought maybe it was something to do with your utensils but clearly that’s not it so I was just cleaning this up when you....got home.” She finishes winded, because most of that was in a single breathe, and Bellamy has apparently regained the power of speech in the interim.

“You broke into my house for peppermint mocha.” He sounds flat, and it sort of crushes her in a way she didn’t really expect.

“I _entered without explicit permission_.” 

He regards her almost warily, an expression that, a month ago would have been met with Clarke crossing the room to brush her fingers up the sides of his face, massaging his temples and weaving into his curls so she could pull him close and kiss the worry out of him. A month ago. Now she just stares helplessly at him, wondering whether it would be polite to just turn and climb out of the kitchen window or not.

Bellamy’s gaze flickers past her shoulder to the kitchen sink. “Just. Clean it up, yeah? I would, but I need to. Uh. I need to put this away.” He hefts the satchel in one hand.

Clarke nods vigorously. “Yeah, yeah of course! I’ll be done in a jiffy--” okay, they both wince at that-- “uh. Sorry about...this.”

He makes a coughing sound in his throat and turns away, while Clarke hurriedly starts washing out the stuff she used, her head buzzing almost too much to think about her situation. Almost. Because she’d known earlier, on a vague, peripheral level that what she was doing was stupid, but it’s just now dawning on her that it’s astronomical, largely stalkerish and creepy levels of stupid. Especially because not only does Bellamy now have to see how much of an unstable mess she’s devolved into, but she has to see him again just to really reopen the wounds that haven’t even come close to healing and feel the air almost escape her lungs entirely with the force of how much she misses him. She’s almost lightheaded with panic and longing and more panic by the time he reappears at the doorframe, in his flannel pajama bottoms and threadbare Pokemon shirt now, looking perfectly composed now. She feels another pang looking at him. It feels like the whole world’s gone upside-down and inside-out since their breakup but he still has the same stupid pajamas.

“Hey,” he says.”

“Hey,” she hopes her voice doesn’t crack, “okay, I’m done here so I’ll get out of your hair now. Sorry again.” She strides forward to try step past him as quickly as possible.  
“Clarke,” he says, and suddenly his hand grabs her wrist, not hard, but just enough to stop her. She freezes for a second, the shock of touching him for the first time in _weeks_. His eyes flicker momentarily to wear his fingers bracelet her wrist, but he doesn’t let go for a second. “Just...hang out a second okay?” He smirks a little when her brow furrows. “I feel like you’ve earned a peppermint mocha at this point.”

“Oh. Um, God Bellamy you really don’t have to...”

“It’s cool. I kind of want one myself, so.”

She considers protesting again, as she probably should, but hey, she figures she’s already screwed up enough today that a little more boundary-stretching won’t matter. “If you’re sure,” she says, “then yeah, I could really go for some overly-sweet Christmas beverage right now.”

He grins properly and then gives her a mild heart attack by reaching above her, so that her nose is suddenly almost touching the hollow of his throat, to pull a measuring jug from the cupboard above the counter that she’s sitting on.

“Do you need me to help with anything?” she asks as he goes about gathering ingredients from various corners of his kitchen.

He smiles, rueful. “Given that your incompetence in this particular field led you to _break into my house_ I think you’re good.”

She flushes, but still mutters “ _entered without explicit permission_ ,” and she feels a brief, unfortunate glow of warmth when he huffs a laugh at that.

“What did you actually do to your first batch that made it so bad you had to _enter without explicit permission_?” he asks.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad--it wasn’t!” she insists, bristling when he snorts. “I may have burnt it. A lot. And then I got one batch that actually tasted okay. Like, it was passable as a peppermint mocha.”

“Yeah? Why did you can it?”

She flushes. “It just. It wasn’t _right_.” _Not the way you made it_ she wants to say, but doesn’t, because unlike it may seem she does actually have some boundaries.

“Besides,” she says, in an attempt to divert attention from herself, “what about you? I’m kind of concerned, do you make it a habit to feed all your trespassers?”

“Just the cute ones,” he answers without batting an eyelid as he pours the steaming beverage into a couple of ceramic mugs, “pass the whipped cream.”

Clarke tosses him the can. The line was the kind of thing he’d say when they were dating, and she’d roll her eyes and he’d smack a kiss to her temple and she’d hide her grin in his shoulder... _he broke up with you_ , she reminds herself, _get a hold of yourself_. 

Bellamy meanwhile produces a candy cane from somewhere and sets about breaking it into pieces to garnish the drinks with.

“Why do you just have that lying around?” she asks, hoping she sounds wryly amused rather than absolutely wrecked.

“’Tis the season, Clarke!” He’s smiling his corner-of-the-lip-just-slightly-quirked smile when he presents her the cup with a flourish, and she has to laugh as she accepts it. There is, for a second, something achingly familiar about the scene, the two of them each with a mug in hand, facing each other from either side of the counter. Glimpses of lazy sunlit morning, softly traded kisses glance off Clarke for a moment, and she takes a sip of the mocha largely to hide her expression.

“Good?” Bellamy asks, grinning when she hums with pleasure. 

“Yeah,” she says, “tastes like you.”

They both freeze as her words land, and Clarke almost does clamber out the window at this point. This is exactly why she should have fled when she had the chance, so she wouldn’t accidentally unearth the underlying cause for her impulsive craving. And fuck, if sneaking into his house was creepy, this was something else. She sets the cup down slowly, and refuses to meet his eyes. “I should go,” she says, and moves almost mechanically forward, hoping to stave off actually feeling anything until she’s in the safe embrace of her own couch.

“Clarke,” he says slowly, “what are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing,” she’s genuinely nauseous now, “I gotta go.”

He takes a step closer to her. “Why were you suddenly craving one of my drinks, Clarke?” his tone is unreadable.

She shakes her head, pursing her lips, and she knows if they go down this line of conversation any longer she’s actually going to cry. “It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

She swallows, and she can feel his gaze on her like a physical touch. “Just. Christmastime nostalgia.”

His eyes widen fractionally even as he leans forward. “O’s Christmas parties.”

Clarke nods, quick and tight, eyes stinging as they both let their minds wander to Octavia’s Christmas parties, where Bellamy’s contribution had been his signature Christmas beverage for years. Where, last year, he’d kissed Clarke for the first time under the mistletoe, “so I could dismiss it as tradition if I’d been grossly wrong and you didn’t like me,” he’d said. “Yeah.”

Bellamy’s face is near enough that she can distinguish individual freckles now, spotting familiar clusters and formations that she itches to brush with her fingertips.

“You missed me,” he says, sounding almost wonderingly, and she’s not sure whether it’s a statement or a question.

Her voice is all but inaudible when she says “I’m sorry.”

He frowns, and she fights the urge to smooth out the crease between his brows. “Why are you sorry, Clarke?”

It’s her turn to be confused now. “I respect your decisions. I didn’t mean to unload this on you, not after you broke up with me...”

Bellamy’s shoulders sag. “Jesus, Clarke. I didn’t...you can’t think...”

“What, Bellamy? I cant’ think what?”

His head is bowed now, his curls bouncing slightly. 

“Bellamy,” she presses, because now she needs to know, “why did you break up with me?”

She knows the inciting moment, of course, the blow-up fight about his unwillingness to accept her help with money and her inability to understand his point of view, the scathing remarks and the jabs that could only come from two people who knew each other well enough to hurt each other. But she didn’t know _why_. “I know you, Bellamy,” she says, and something in both of them seems to shatter, “it wasn’t just one fight. Everything we had didn’t evaporate for you because of one fight.”

His hand grips her elbow now, as though steadying himself. “ _Evaporate_ , Christ...” he laughs, short and humourless. “Your mother spoke to me,” he says, and her heart goes cold because she knows what this means.  
“She got in your head,” Clarke says, and her heart splinters, “oh God, Bellamy, I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “Stop apologising, Clarke. This was on me.”

“No!” Clarke takes his other hand, her fervour overriding her shyness, “no, Bellamy, it’s not fair! She always does this. She always makes you think you’re not good enough or something and that’s bullshit, because you’re _everything_!” The confession rushes out of her before she can stop it, and Bellamy glances up sharply, looking raw, exposed. 

The nerves are surging back up, so Clarke is trembling when she speaks again. “I miss you,” she confirms, softly, quietly, because even if she’s lost him he deserves to know that, “and you’ve always been enough for me.” 

She moves as though to disengage from him, to leave through the door, but he tugs at her and then his lips are on hers, warm and firm and searching. She freezes for a moment, unable to process what’s happening, but then she gets it, something ignites in her chest when she realises that Bellamy Blake is kissing her again, and she knots her hands in the front of his stupid Pikachu t-shirt, pulling at him because he can never get close enough, and his hands slide up her arms, her shoulders, her neck, her face, until they’re tangled in her hair, holding her like he can’t believe she’s real, and it’s like coming home. She can taste peppermint and chocolate on his tongue and she laughs, breathless against his mouth.

When they pull away, they’re only far enough to rest their foreheads against each other’s, taking a few moments to regain control of their breaths.

“We have to talk about this,” she says, trying not to smile just yet.  
“I know.” He moves to nip at her ear.

“We’ve got stuff to figure out.”

“Yeah.” He traces the line of her neck, so gently she can’t tell if it’s with his breath or his lips.

“I need to have words with my mother,” she manages through a gasp.”

“Hmm.” He’s mumbling into the crook of her neck now, and it’s almost Too Much.

“But. I missed you. And I’m tired of missing you. So if you mean this, then--”

“Clarke,” he says against the shell of her ear, his breath stirring wisps of her hair.

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

She feels his smile against her cheek, and, well, she _has_ to kiss him again.

“I love you too,” she says, hardly pulling away, just peppering kisses wherever on his face she can land them. “So much. I never stopped.” She buries her flush in his shoulder then, because even though it’s obvious, it feels like a confession.

His hands trace incoherent patterns along her back. “This was the worst month of my life, Clarke,” he says, voice rasping with honesty, “and I want you to know that as long as you’ll have me, I’m never letting you go again.”

She pulls back to smile at him, and at last she starts to realise that it’s all good, for real. “I’m always going to want you, idiot,” she says, finally able to laugh as he steals another kiss, then plants one on her nose.

“Yeah?”

She smirks into the base of his throat. “Of course. You think I’m making my own peppermint mochas?”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/Comments are more satisfying than a handmade peppermint mocha from Bellamy!


End file.
